


In the Absence of Sound

by KHansen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bingo, Broken Bones, Established Relationship, Graphic Description, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Injury, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26852758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: “Oh, you saw right through my dastardly plan! I was going to sing a beautiful song and put all the monsters, including the two of you right to sleep! Then I’d kill the rakerack--”“Raakerick.”“--Yes that, and take all the money for myself!”====Ciri jumps closer to Geralt’s side as the sickeningcrunchof bones and the squelch of flesh follows them.Jaskier is silent.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 180





	1. Monster Hunting

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [unsealie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsealie/pseuds/unsealie) for the bingo sheet! Each chapter is one of the prompts on it to make a bingo!

“I shall be accompanying you and Cirilla, of course.”

Geralt sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Ciri giggles behind her hand, leather glove muffling the sound as green eyes glance back and forth between the witcher and his bard. Jaskier has a smug smile upon his lips, hands planted on green clothed hips. His silks are a muted emerald, accented with golden lace and leaf. Not his boldest outfit, but neither is it one meant for trekking through the woods.

“No, Jaskier, I told you already,” Geralt groans, crossing his arms over his chest to glare at the bard, “a raakerick is too dangerous for you.”

“Geralt, you’re bringing a literal  _ child, _ no offense, Ciri--”

“None taken.”

Jaskier nods his thanks and continues as though he hadn’t been interrupted, “then I certainly can join the hunt.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to tell Jaskier that it’s not his age that makes Geralt not want him coming along. It’s not even the fact that Jaskier is only minorly skilled in swordsmanship, just enough to protect himself from a lesser skilled, human opponent. Hell, it’s not even that Jaskier’s a bard and shouldn’t be anywhere  _ near _ a monster hunt.

The fact of the matter is: Geralt isn’t sure what he would do if Jaskier didn’t make it back.

“Ciri is training to be a witcher, Jask,  _ and _ she has magic. What do you have? A fucking lute?”

“Are you going to sing the monsters to sleep, Julek?” Ciri laughs and Jaskier’s cheeks turn pink as he rolls his eyes.

“Oh, you saw right through my dastardly plan! I was going to sing a beautiful song and put all the monsters, including the two of  _ you _ right to sleep! Then I’d kill the rakerack--”

_ “Raakerick.” _

“--Yes that, and take all the money for myself!”

Ciri dissolves into uproarious laughter as she drops to the bed, rolling on her back and clutching her stomach as mirthful tears drip into her hair. Geralt looks heavenward and shakes his head, a smile tugging at his own lips.

“C’mon, Geralt,” Jaskier wheedles, “I’ll be quiet as a church mouse. And if I’m not… and you have to rescue me with all that handsome muscle of yours…” he steps closer to the witcher and runs a hand down Geralt’s chest suggestively.

Geralt clears his throat pointedly, nodding his head at Ciri, “And what would we do with her?”

“I’ve got good money, had some nice sets these past few nights, I’m sure Ciri would adore having her own room for once, wouldn’t you, darling?”

Ciri bobs her head excitedly as she sits up, “If you guys fucking means I get my own room? Then fuck like rabbits.”

“Hey,” Geralt frowns, “Watch your fucking language.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes fondly and pecks Geralt’s cheek, “That settles it then. I’m coming along!”

* * *

Geralt figures Jaskier is regretting his decision as the bard hisses another swear, his boot sunk into the third mud puddle that’s been hidden by detritus in an hour. Geralt shushes him, listening for the signs of the raakerick that haunts these woods. 

“Ciri,” Geralt murmurs a few minutes later, “what do we have to be on the lookout for with a raakerick?”

She hums softly as she thinks, “they have a poison spray that’s a… neurotoxin?” Geralt nods in encouragement. “It paralyzes the victim. It also has a vocal sac that amplifies its voice when swollen and its scream can knock you back just like Aard can.”

“Well, maybe not  _ just _ like Aard--” Geralt starts to mutter. The rest of his thought is lost to the horrendous shriek of the raakerick, trees cracking and leaves showering down upon the ground.

They come upon a clearing, the raakerick pacing back and forth upon six legs that end in three-fingered feet, almost like a chameleon. But its thin, thrashing tail is definitely not at all like a reptile’s, ugly green fur layered patchily over fetid and festering flesh. Its face is pinched and it has beady black eyes with a long, thin snout. As it opens its mouth, a thin membrane beneath its jaw swells with air. Geralt spies the razor sharp teeth that line the raakerick’s jaw just before he ducks behind a tree with Ciri and Jaskier.

The raakerick screeches, an awful sound reminiscent of the squealing of mangled metal. Jaskier and Ciri cover their ears and the tree they’re ducked behind splinters, dusting them in sawdust and bark shavings. Jaskier peers out around Geralt with saucer-wide eyes, his long fingers curling around the witcher’s hip.

_ “That’s _ a raakerick?”

“Ugly ain’t she?” Geralt hums, shoving Jaskier back behind the tree as he draws his silver sword. Ciri does the same, adjusting her grip and flexing her fingers upon the pommel. Geralt reaches into the potions pouch on his belt and feels the different bottles before withdrawing Blizzard and downing it. It tastes strongly of mint and shit, making his tongue burn and his throat close up for just a moment as his veins turn to ice before he thaws once more. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be without potions of my own,” Ciri snarks and Geralt shakes his head with a small huff.

“On my count then. Three, two, one, go!”

They both dart out from behind the tree and rush the raakerick. The beast roars furiously and charges towards Geralt, snapping those huge jaws at the witcher’s head. He ducks beneath the monster’s attack and slashes at its chest, his sword carving deep into the thing’s flesh. Ichor splatters across his face and the raakerick screams and twists away just as Ciri lands a solid hit to its shoulder. 

The monster howls and jumps back, scuttling towards the edge of the clearing. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt spies Jaskier slinking closer and grits his teeth. He turns to warn the bard away just as the vocal sac swells again.

The raakerick shrieks. They’re thrown back, feet leaving the ground, and crash to the forest floor as the monster makes its escape.

“Ciri, are you okay?” Geralt’s ears are ringing from the concussive blast of the raakerick’s scream. Ciri groans and hauls herself to her feet, nodding and giving him a tired thumbs up. “Jaskier?”

There’s no response.

“Jaskier?” Geralt frowns, terror striking his heart and making his blood run cold.

There’s an almost silent cough before Jaskier’s thin voice wheezes,  _ “Geralt.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter contains graphic depiction of MCD and gore. If you wish to skip it, the third chapter will be understandable without the second.
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	2. "Don't Open Your Eyes"

_ “Geralt.” _

Ciri turns towards the weak sound, lifting her head and pushing her loose hair out of her face. She doesn’t see him at first, eyes skipping right over the emerald silks at the base of a tree. Geralt’s sharp inhale of horror grabs her attention, focus zeroing in on Jaskier’s body.

“Geralt?” She asks tentatively as she walks over. Her hands fly to her mouth as Geralt drops to his knees beside Jaskier.

A branch protrudes out from his stomach, stained crimson and shining with his blood, and as he sags forward she can see the base of his skull is dented  _ inwards. _ There’s bruising rapidly blooming behind his ears and around his eyes, making the blue irises pop against purple and black skin. Jaskier’s breaths are coming thin and fast, his chest barely rising as his green doublet turns black.

“Don’t look,” Geralt begs, his hands fluttering uselessly from Jaskier’s jaw to his stomach, “Jask,  _ Jask,  _ close your eyes, please.”

“It’s… probably not… so bad,” Jaskier gasps but he closes his eyes obediently. The bruising has gotten worse, and a clear fluid has started to drip from his nose, glittering in the moonlight. Ciri wants to stop watching, wants to close her own eyes, but she can’t look away.

“Don’t open your eyes,” Geralt breathes, his voice airy and desperate. His arm grazes the tree branch and Jaskier  _ howls.  _

It’s a sound that Ciri never wants to hear again. It’s  _ inhuman. _ A prolonged wail of pure unfettered agony that’s so primal it makes something within her shatters. She sinks to the ground, pulling her knees to her chin as she peers over them.  _ She can’t look away. _

Jaskier arches his back, his head hitting the tree and his screams jump an octave. His impressive vocal range, so beneficial to his profession, is now an instrument to his anguish. Jumping and dipping, not a single break in the sustained notes, with the ululations born of his agony.

“Jaskier-- Jask! Jask, you need-- Jaskier you need to stop moving!” Geralt presses his hands against Jaskier’s shoulders, holding the bard in place and halting his writhing. Jaskier’s gasping and heaving, his lungs stuttering and blood flowing from his lips. It drips down his chin and onto the breast of his shirt, a crimson blossom unfurling shining petals on his chest.

“G-Ge--” 

“Don’t talk, don’t speak, Jask,” Geralt sobs, tears dripping down his face, cutting through the ichor splattered across his cheeks, “I’m so sorry. I-I-- Jaskier,  _ songbird, _ I’m so sorry.”

A rustling sound draws Ciri’s attention and she, reluctantly, looks away from the macabre sight. The raakerick has returned, its dark shadow slicing through the trees at the edge of the clearing. She sees the pouch of its neck expanding and contracting like a bellows and jumps to her feet, running over and knocking Geralt away from Jaskier and onto the ground as it releases its sonic wave of sound.

The shriek knocks them back, away from their bard who screams from the agonizing torture of the branch being forced further into his abdomen, his fractured skull bashing against the tree once more. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, clapping his hands over his sensitive ears. Ciri suspects that it’s not to block out the sounds of the raakerick.

“We either need to kill it or we need to  _ go,  _ Geralt,” Ciri gasps, getting up and trying to pull Geralt to his feet. Geralt shakes his head, allowing her to haul him up, but then turning to go back to Jaskier. She can only see one of his boots sticking out from behind the tree. “We can’t, Geralt! We  _ can’t!” _

“I can’t leave him!” Geralt pulls away as the raakerick screeches again, throwing both of them backwards and she skids across the damp leaves, mud working its way into her clothing and skin.

Ciri’s voice breaks on a sob as she crawls over to Geralt,  _ “Please,  _ Geralt, please we need to leave. We can’t kill it, we can’t, we’re not strong enough together. I’m  _ scared, _ Daddy.”

Geralt makes a punched out sound, a whine escaping his throat as he looks between the tree that Jaskier is behind and his daughter. Finally, he slowly nods. It looks like pure agony written on his face as he gets to his feet with her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. 

“Geralt?” 

Ciri’s blood runs cold at the weak exhalation. Jaskier is still alive.

“Geralt? Where did you go?” Jaskier says faintly, “Geralt? Ciri?”

Geralt has frozen in place, his head turned back towards the tree, “We… I gotta get Ciri out of here, Jaskier.”

“Where did you go? Please don’t leave me.”

“She’s too little, she’s going to get hurt if we stay, Jaskier.”

Ordinarily, Ciri would be offended by the way Geralt calls her ‘little’, but she’s too focussed on the voice of her bard, her second father, to pay it any mind.

“Don’t go, Geralt. I don’t want to be alone. I-- where have you gone? Geralt? Ciri?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is choked and full of pain, “Jaskier we have to go. I’m sorry, I love you, but we have to go.”

“I don’t think he can hear you, Geralt,” Ciri whispers, clutching tightly to Geralt’s arm.

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries again, “Jaskier!”

“Where are you? Where’s Ciri? Where did everyone go? Geralt?”

Ciri watches as Geralt’s shoulders plummet, hunching forward and turning away as more tears flow down his ashen cheeks. “C’mon, Ciri,” he rasps, taking a jerking step forward. Away from Jaskier.

“Geralt? Don’t leave me here, please!” Jaskier begs, he pleads, his desperation leaking into every vowel and consonant.

Ciri wishes she could cover her ears as they slowly start walking away. She can hear the raakerick moving through the brush and they quicken their pace. Jaskier’s voice echoes after them as he gets one last burst of adrenaline.

“Ciri? Geralt? Gods, please, please,  _ please _ don’t leave me alone! I don’t want to be alone! Geralt?  _ Geralt! _ Geralt,  _ please! _ Ger--”

Ciri jumps closer to Geralt’s side as the sickening  _ crunch _ of bones and the squelch of flesh follows them. 

Jaskier is silent.

Geralt presses a hand to his own mouth before wrenching himself from Ciri’s grip. He turns and gags before the contents of his stomach are emptied into a shrub. Ciri feels sick as well. They  _ left him. _ They let the monster  _ eat _ Jaskier, and for what? So she could get away?

This is her fault. If she were stronger. If she were  _ faster _ . If she were even just a  _ little _ bit better than she is, things wouldn’t have ended the way they did. Things wouldn’t have ended in torn sinew and flayed tendons, in crimson blood that blackens the earth. In racoon bruises and Jaskier  _ impaled _ upon a tree branch.

But she isn’t any of those things and they did end that way.

Now Jaskier is dead.

And it’s all her fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	3. Grieving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Planned Suicide

The warm golden hue of the setting sun is hollow in the clear sky. The horizon is a bloody red, a gradient radiance of rainbow reaching up into star-speckled indigo. The heavens are bright, the north star shining and twinkling softly as it guides a flock of birds south for the impending winter. 

The crunch of a shovel in granular soil echoes across the open meadow, the fields blazing with color. Flowers of every shape and size are meshed together in this melting pot, a small hum of magic settled over the entire place. Be it the magic of nature or something supernatural is not something Geralt wishes to find out as he focuses on his task at hand. 

It takes him a few hours to dig Jaskier’s grave.

He does it bare handed, palms blistering against the rough hewn handle. He relishes the pain, the dull ache of his shoulders and piercing throb of his back as he climbs out of the hole. His hands smart and his fingers cramp and sweat makes his hair stick to his neck but he turns his face to the sun and closes his eyes.

He’s never felt more cold.

Ciri shuffles and sniffles at the edge of the grave, casting teary glances at the rolled canvas nearby. Jaskier’s remains, wrapped in plain cotton and tied with twine. He deserves so much more. He deserves a proper funeral, a party, a _celebration_ of his beautiful life. But that’s outside the reaches of a witcher. Geralt doesn’t have any fancy ribbons, any oak to make into a casket. He doesn’t have bells or whistles or bards regaling guests with the story of Jaskier. He has a canvas sheet, and some twine, and this shovel he borrowed from the gravedigger of the nearby town.

Geralt carefully lifts the canvas that contains his lover, lighter than it ever should have been when Jaskier’s battle with time inevitably came to an end, and lowers it gently into the grave. He looks down at the plain white sheet, so small within the four walls of dark soil, and feels his eyes start to prickle.

He quickly reaches for the shovel, ready to hide his failures, when Ciri stops him with a hand on his arm. “Can we say a few words?” She asks in a trembling voice. Her eyes are filled with tears, a few having slipped down her thin cheeks already. Geralt pauses. He nods, once, and stabs the shovel back into the mound of earth beside him, unable to speak around the rock that chokes his words.

Ciri wipes her eyes before clasping her hands together in front of her. She draws her shoulders back, looking every miserable inch like the grieving princess she is. The gentle breeze caresses her hair, blowing wisps across her face that stick to the tear tracks on her skin. She swallows, and then repeats the action. She clears her throat.

“Jaskier--” her voice breaks and the tears begin anew, rushing hot and fast to drip off her chin. She clears her throat again, her voice shaking hard enough to be difficult to understand, “Julek. I love you. You were the best second father I could ever have had. You sang so beautifully to me, _for_ me, I cannot possibly ever repay you. I… I don’t know what we’ll do now. Not without you.” She sniffles before dissolving into heaving sobs, shoulders jumping as she hunches forward and ducks her head. Her tears drip into the grave, “I w-wish you could h-have lived forever, Julek! I’m so s-sorry!”

Geralt wraps his arms around her and she turns into his chest. She buries her face against the breast of his shirt, tears soaking the fabric. He swallows hard around the growing lump that already has stolen his voice and threatens to rob him of his breath. He rubs her back, bending forward to bury his face in her starlit hair and breathing in. 

The scents of leather and apple and hints of Jaskier clinging stubbornly to her braided locks, and Geralt is selfish. So, so selfish as he inhales again and again, stealing away the last of the bard from her plait. Slowly, Ciri’s tears ebb and her hitching hiccuping breathing eases into something more manageable. She remains in his embrace a few moments longer before pulling away with a shuddering breath.

“Better?” Geralt asks quietly and she nods as she scrubs her fists over her eyes. He hums and then picks up the shovel once more.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Ciri’s voice is so small, so achingly fragile as she asks him such a simple question with such a complex answer. Can he say something? Can he find words, already so elusive to him, and force them past the aching log that has taken up residence just below his adam’s apple? And if he can, what would he say? What could possibly be as meaningful as Jaskier? What words can he think of could _possibly_ come even close to encompassing everything that Jaskier was to him?

“Geralt?”

His grip on the shovel tightens, making his blisters burn and his knuckles ache. His eyes sting like he’s downed Cat before entering a cave, his face as hot as sitting before a fire. His hands shake and his shoulders tremble with the force of holding up the dam of his emotions. How could he have ever thought witchers couldn’t feel? How foolish he was to believe that, but now he’d give anything to not feel the way he does right now.

He feels like he’s been rent in two, split right down the middle. Like all the blood has been removed from his body and dumped into the hole with Jaskier. Like someone has stolen a crucial part of him, cut his tether and now he’s drifting away with nothing to hold on to. He feels bereft, in distress… Empty.

He should say something, though. Even with all of his doubts. Jaskier would want-- he _deserves_ \-- that much. Geralt clears his throat in a futile attempt to dislodge the painful lump before croaking:

“I love you, songbird. I’m sorry… I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. That you died alone and scared. I- I wanted so badly to be by your side… You would have told me to take Ciri and run, though, had you known what was happening. So I did.” Geralt pauses to try and hold back the well of tears in his eyes, his voice impossibly choked as he forces the last few syllables from his lips; four agonizing consonants and five impossible vowels, “I love you.”

They stand in silence, nothing but the wind whooshing through the meadow. Bowing the heads of flowers towards the grave in silent respect. Even the earth mourns Jaskier the Bard, animals silent and the world holding its breath. Geralt breaks the stillness by delicately dumping the first shovelful of soil onto the corpse, dirtying the canvas in a way that makes his stomach lurch.

Bile rises in his throat, burning as it presses past the rock that’s taken up residence on his larynx. He sets his jaw, gritting his teeth against it, and drops another shovel of sod. It’s heartbreaking work, even harder than it was to dig the original hole. Each whump of another scoop takes with it part of his soul.

It’s long past dark when he finishes. Geralt draws his silver sword, so precious to a witcher, and drives it into the earth at the top of the mound. Ciri then gingerly lays an intricate wreath of woven flowers over the pommel. They both stand in another moment of fragile silence before Ciri whispers:

“Goodbye, Jaskier.”

Years, decades, and centuries pass. Ciri grows, lives, and dies. Yennefer passes as well. Even his brothers eventually succumb to the Path. It’s with a heavy heart and a vial of poison in pocket that Geralt slinks into the nearest bar, intent on one last hurrah before finally going to join his love in the forever life. 

It’s open mic night, just his luck, and someone is singing in a pleasant tenor voice. His heart twists and he keeps his eyes averted from the makeshift stage as he sits in a booth, hands clasped on the table in front of him. A waitress comes by and takes his order, bringing him a pint a few minutes later. 

He’s old, so very old, and yet his body refuses to reflect that. His skin just as youthful as it’s always been, scars faded with time to shining white stripes. His hair falls in a curtain around his face, unbound as it is, and he sighs. He feels every aching second of the past six centuries, and it’s finally time, he thinks, for him to move on. 

There’s no more monsters. No more creatures for him to draw swords against. No need for his silver or his steel. No one needs a witcher these days; not with guns and machines and everything in between. 

Geralt isn’t needed.

There’s no one to remember him anyway. Cirilla’s children so far along in generations that they only know him as a myth-- a family story, passed down from parent to child, and nothing more. The singer has stopped crooning into the mic and Geralt relishes the blessed silence for the first time since Jaskier’s passing.

Footsteps approach his table. He refuses to look up. It’s no one of note to him, no one worth his limited time.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

Geralt’s head snaps up, neck cracking with the force as he desperately looks at the owner of such a sentence.

Blue eyes smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


End file.
